The air was soup this morning, the wind momentarily still, allowing the fog to settle in more deeply. The sun was low, just having crested the horizon but blocked by the landmass that was Newfoundland. Oars dipping into the water were the only noise aside from the waves sloshing against the sides of the rowboat.
It was a sturdy little vessel, fit enough for their purpose, though three kilometres away from shore, the pair were starting to wonder if they shouldn’t have gone for a motorized boat instead. Still, the rowboat was quieter and in the game of stealth, silence was key.
The peacefulness of their progression was broken by the raspy voice of James ‘Jimmy’ Williamson, distorted by the radio waves from his spot in a little hut in Point May. “Shore to Whale, come in Whale.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “We hear ya Jimmy, and prob’ly the folks over there in St. Pierre too.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy said, dropping his voice. “Just wanted to let ya know that all is clear. No one else is around. They’re all at the softball game so we should be good to go.”
“Roger that.”
“Shore out.”
Michael’s current side kick, Charlie Chambers, was watching Michael to time the pulling of his oar as they made their way to the lighthouse on Green Island. Charlie adjusted his toque to cover his ears more against the damp of the fog, all the while cursing his bad luck at drawing one of the two short straws to row the supplies over to the lighthouse. He should have said something, but it was silly really. Sure, his ma had been afraid of water and so he had never learned to swim, but this was a basic run, right? But as each wave sloshed against the sides of their pram dinghy, the twisting in his gut intensified.
Over on Green Island, Daniel Doyle had been alternating between writing and sleeping, all the while keeping an eye on the radio for a message from the shore. His writing (and that of the others) was why he was even in this bloody lighthouse freezing his ass off in the damp spring air. He was determined to finish his masterpiece and knew that it needed work. That was why the Banff Centre for the Arts’ new courses were so appealing. He just needed enough money to travel and attend the course and he knew this book would be incredible. Surely if James M. Cain could publish Tender is the Night then his work about the secrets lives of fishermen would strike gold. He rubbed his bearded chin as he dreamt of the fortune that was to come. Inspired by Christie and Carr, Crofts and Cain, Doyle intended to be Canada’s most famous mystery novelist. Yes, he could see it now. The accolades. Maybe he’d even one day get a Pulitzer or Nobel. As far as Daniel was concerned, his future was set.
Looking up from his hardcover notebook at the still, he did wonder at the current trajectory of his path, since he had never imagined himself to go into rum smuggling himself. But growing up watching his uncle earn a decent living going back and forth from Newfoundland to St. Pierre, well, why couldn’t he had his friends get in on the action? They didn’t need to get rich. Just enough to get them going on they journey.
It was going to be a grand adventure getting to the Rockies. Daniel had longed to see all of Canada but thus far had only been as far as the Bay of Fundy. He had seen all the photos and read the adventures of others but he wanted to experience it for himself. He wanted to add the texture of realism, ensuring his setting was its own character, as the greats did. The prairies would be brushstrokes of the wind, the boreal forests the structure, the majestic Rockies the heights of emotion. The still, that was currently dripping that precious liquid would be the glacier carving his path forward to success. No one need know that rum had fuelled these early days of his career, no. When someone later asked how he had managed to make a go at being a writer, he would point to hard work and determination.
Back at Point May, Jimmy sat in his tiny hut listening to his radio while working on his next play and hoping his friends hurried up and got to the island and back before the softball game was over. By that point, the community would be hovering about and if the fog lifted even a little, their ruse was up. He at least had an alibi, having stopped in at the store a little while ago and mentioned going crabbing to the proprietor, Mr. O’Donnell. In fact, he planned to do so right after he was given the all-clear from Daniel just to ensure that his story held up. Not that anyone would suspect sweet Jimmy of smugglin’ rum anyway. Nuh uh, not him. A smirk slipped over his face only to be interrupted by a startled cry over the radio.
“Whale to Shore, we’re taking on water!”
Jimmy picked up the radio, holding it his hands. “Use the bailer!”
“What the hell do you think we’re doing?”I thought you looked over the boat after the last run.”
The accusation stung and though no one could see him, his face was turning an interesting shade of crimson. “Now, you hear now, don’t you go blamin’ me for your spot of trouble. How much further do you have to go?”
“Three clicks, best as we can tell.”
At that distance, they were all but sunk. They had best be prepared to swim to Green Island if they didn’t want to drown. And there went their only way off the little island too. All told, this was a disaster. He had checked the boat too, so it wasn’t his fault. But it mattered little just now as his friends lives were at stake. It was so foggy and the water choppy enough that even if he went for help right now and someone else got a boat out there, finding them would be tricky. Still, it was a straight shot out to the lighthouse and there was still a chance.
“I’m gonna go for help,” Jimmy said.
“Ah damn it all to hell,” Charlie muttered, just audible over the short wave.
In the boat, Michael was scooping out the chilly sea water as Charlie had taken on both oars and was pulling as fast as he could. Maybe they could make some quick distance before they had to bail and swim. Michael was hopeful, though in the back of his mind Charlie’s warning that he couldn’t swim sat flashing annoyingly at him. What to do? He could swim decently enough so though he’d be tired, he could make it. But he couldn’t drag Charlie along with him.
Suddenly a spark flared between him and his friend.
Charlie, who just prior to the arrival of the water inside the boat had been musing about H.G. Wells, Jules Verne and Olaf Stapledon, now found himself in his own mysterious story as he watched Michael check the radio. Nope, that wasn’t the cause of the spark.
Another flash of light.
Michael’s jaw dropped as he stared at his friend whom he had known since he was three. The sparks were coming from Charlie.
“Charlie, man, what’s happening’ to ya?” Michael, said, brows knit together.
“Wadda ya mean?” Charlie said as he looked down. His feet were sitting in the water and something was happening to his mind even as he was processing this strange occurrence. See, plain water was one thing, but sea water was quite another. Salty water and untreated metal don’t mix. Maybe there had been a reason all along that his ma hadn’t let him learn to swim.
Micheal rose up and sighed. “Time to bail, my friend. I wish you luck.”
“Same to you,” Charlie said, still unsure what was happening. It was like his thoughts were moving slower and as he looked down at the dark depths of the ocean he know he’d need courage. He’d seen people swim over and over again. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? Ya just needed to keep moving. They could make it to the island, surely?
Michael’s strokes were sure and fast as he navigated wave after waves, and Charlie watched for another minute before the water level in the dinghy was reaching the tipping point. Okay, time to go. Taking a deep breath, Charlie got up and jumped into the water.
And promptly sunk.
Twenty minutes later, the RCMP boat with Jimmy aboard would pick up Michael and move to the island to collect Daniel, who had fallen asleep and missed all the drama. He would sigh and confess their plan to the police, who shook their heads at the foolishness of it. The still that had only just become operational had yet to produce any rum.
As for Charlie, well, he was presumed lost at sea. And so he was. But years later, divers would find his rusted body lying on the bottom of the sea floor, a curious find that prompted a retrieval. The interior workings would astonish those that tried to figure out how a man could rust. It shouldn’t be possible, but of course it was if you were not a real man at all.
Daniel, years later, would eventually make it to Banff, driving across the country himself, taking in the landscape he had dreamed off. He never went to the Centre for the Arts courses, and the RCMP had more or less just slapped his hand for the smuggling, given that so many other people did it that it was a part of their whole economy. But in his old age, he’d pen his last work, not a mystery novel, but a science fiction novel in honour of his friend Charlie the robot who inspired him with his untimely death.
Everyone assumed it was fiction, but the residents of Point May, Newfoundland knew better. Daniel was fine submitting it as science fiction, even if he did write it as piece of history. Published was published, right?
This piece was a ridiculous mash-up of Canadian Lit tropes via the CanLIt Generator. My prompt was: A group of writers smuggle rum but also, one of them is a robot.
Try one for yourself! If nothing else, you can have yourself a good laugh.